


Murder at Thymbra

by sparklight



Series: Iliou Persis [4]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Background Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Epic Cycle, M/M, Murder, One-Sided Attraction, Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklight/pseuds/sparklight
Summary: Achilles is ordered by Athena to kill a Trojan prince, but the boy is fast and flees into the supposed safety of the nearby temple.In war, nothing is safe, and Achilles has little patience even when sacrilege would mean angering not just a god, but also Troilus' father.
Relationships: Achilles/Troilus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Apollo & Ganymede (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: Iliou Persis [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789012
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. The Death of Troilus

Achilles was overseeing the ships being properly pulled up on the beach and squared away for the siege when Patroklos came up beside him. Patroklos, who was somewhere up behind him beyond the shore, directing their soldiers in setting up the Myrmidon camp; he could hear him, faintly.

"Achilles, come with me," Patroklos said, and Achilles glanced sideways, down, at a face well-loved, a shadow of a short, neatly kept beard softening the cut of his jaw, the gleam of rich brown eyes and lazily wavy hair bound back by a headband. Looked down and saw the gleam of divinity, heard the shadow of Athena's voice in the deeper, familiar richness of Patroklos'.

"What do you need?" Achilles frowned even as he called one of his more trusted men after Patroklos over to have him take over for him then followed the figure of the man closest to his heart further down the beach. They stopped at the edge of the area they'd commandeered, with a ridge rising up from the rocks at that part of the beach offering natural protection.

"Arm yourself," not-Patroklos said, too cool, too precise to be the man himself, no matter how well-spoken he was. "Troy has stood for nine years and has yet more protections, despite that you've finally penetrated their defense to land to shore. If you're to succeed, the blood of Priam must be spilled."

Well. That was what they were _here for_. Achilles arched an eyebrow, growing impatient from the goddess speaking so round-about. "We're going to spill it aplenty as soon as we have made proper camp and can attack the city. Priam won't keep his sons behind the wall."

The king himself might be more troublesome if that was what Athena meant by blood of Priam. He was old, old enough there would be no shame and all sense for him to stay behind the walls, so even if he might be of a mind to lead the attack himself he would serve Troy's defense better by remaining behind. Which, unless he was truly a fool, he probably knew, and his sons would probably be more than eager to remind him if he should be tempted otherwise.

" _Very particular_ blood, Son of Peleus." His voice sharpening finally, Athena-as-Patroklos gestured away from the camp and away from Troy, too, seen distantly on the horizon, towards the south-east. "And the youth is young enough he'll be kept off the battlefield unless true desperation strikes the Trojans, so if Troy is to fall in the tenth year, he can't be allowed to hide away. There's a chance; he and a sister are out amusing themselves, unknowing you've finally made land. Arm yourself and take his life before he's again safe behind Troy's walls."

Achilles shrugged and then turned, leaving to arm himself, get a chariot and to inform Patroklos - the actual Patroklos - that he had business to attend to to make sure their siege would be successful. Patroklos, of course, asked to come along, but the camp needed to be set up, and he would rather trust Patroklos to that even if he hadn't been all but implicitly ordered to go alone.

So alone Achilles went, driving his horses south and west in the mid-morning sunlight, the air still chilly. He followed the glittering band of the Skamandros further inland, all the way to where it was joined by the Thymbraios, the smaller river embracing a plain, the city that took its name after the river, and a temple to Apollo. Achilles took his time scouting the area out after stashing his chariot and horses in a grove near the sacred precinct, finding a suitable place to hide near the well built up against the road as it passed by the river and the temple. It offered a place for travellers to rest and for clean, sweet water to be drawn for suppliants to the temple.

It was, also, a good spot to water thirsty horses before a ride back to Troy.

He heard laughter and the rhythmic thumping of hooves before he saw the siblings. The girl, barely into the bloom of womanhood, if that, was a fresh flower, certainly. Her long, unbound dark hair shone in the sun and the flounced dress fluttered and bounced with the horse's trot while she sat sideways in front of her brother, gesturing animatedly. She would be stunning in even just a year or two. The boy...

Achilles stared. 

The boy was a year or two older than his sister, perhaps. Not a man yet, but definitely learning the arts of war. Fourteen? Perhaps. A little younger than Achilles had been when they'd made their first attempt on Troy fifteen years ago and hit another city entirely. It didn't matter. What mattered was the glowing colour on his cheeks, the sparkle in his bright eyes, the way the sunlight caught in his hair. What mattered was the leashed strength that could just barely be seen in the coil of youthful muscle; this was no puppy, no. This youth was another proof of Troy's gleaming heritage, attracting divine attention again and again. Achilles remembered something he’d heard about Apollo and the queen of Troy...

Well. If there was any god besides Zeus who would lay claim to the royalty of Troy, clearly Apollo ought to be the next one, the son being like the father, and Troy’s tutelary deity besides. 

No wonder the boy had to die. 

Divine gifts carried heavily in war and would provide Troy great protection, even if the boy was young, and by the way he handled that horse, Achilles could guess he’d be a glorious terror in a chariot. He would rather have had the chance to try himself against him, but alas. It could not be chanced, not when Athena had charged him with the boy’s death. 

Eyes flicking between the siblings, Achilles could see both similarities and differences, and what both joined them most alike and parted them just as terribly was their beauty. The sister was a glowing, laughing flower of a girl, charming sweetness colouring her cheeks, but it was earthly. No more, no less. She was undoubtedly already drawing eyes, for being a princess, for being lovely, and Achilles almost wished he would have the chance to take her with him. Even so, her beauty wasn't the same as the boy’s.

For the boy, while he presumably didn't rival Zeus' stolen cupbearer, though related to him as he was, could still surely have inflamed stones with desire. Achilles gripped the hilt of his sword, grit his teeth, and stared. Stared where he sat crouched behind his potential ambush spot as the horse drew close to the well and the siblings slid off. As the girl took the horse's reins and led it to the well, drew up water for it to drink. As the boy followed after, leaning on the well while his sister did the work. Stared at supple calves and arms starting to show proof of strength, which would never bloom into the full promise of a divinely-blessed physique.

Because he was going to kill the boy.

"Troilus! No!" the girl cried, half laughing, arms up in the air to try and protect herself from her brother splashing her now that the horse was done drinking. The youth's - _Troilus'_ \- laughter rang bright, seeming to lighten the air around him just a shade, the grin on his lips teasing but not unkind.

" _Defend yourself_ , Polyxena! What are you going to do if an Achaean soldier surprises you? Cry 'no' and throw your arms up? Come now!" Troilus splashed her again, unrepentant, relaxed. They didn't know yet that his joking threat was now a very real possibility - reality, thanks to the force making camp on the beach, and too as soon as Achilles could make himself rise up, stride forward. He needed to, to kill the boy. And he would.

But he _wanted_.

Oh, did he want, though there was lovely Briseis back in the camp Patroklos was setting up, easily a rival to that sweet little willow of a girl trying to snatch the bucket from her brother to make him stop splashing her. There was Patroklos, strong and glorious and well-loved, and if it was only a matter of who had his heart, then it would have been simple. It was not that.

It was about divinely-blessed beauty that made youthful Troilus' skin glow, his features strong and slopingly charming, bright, all at once. It was about the promise of strength, which, if given a few years, easily would have matched Achilles'.

Furious, wanting, Achilles surged to his feet and strode forward, though his hand was left clutching the hilt of his sword without drawing it. The children saw him, and while Polyxena only smiled vaguely at first, uncomprehending of the danger as she clearly was only seeing an armed soldier that she probably took to be one of her father's men, Troilus was more alert. Spotted the differences in armour. Probably felt the subdued power that lurked under Achilles' skin, divinely-born as he was, like Achilles had felt and seen Troilus' divine parentage. He paled.

"Polyxena, the horse!"

Paled and threw the bucket in a good show of instinct, water scattering in a glittering arc in the sunlight. Achilles ducked it with only a twitch of his head sideways but didn't even speed up. It didn't matter.

"Troilus, what---?"

"If you stand down, she'll go free," he chose to say as the brother helped his sister up on the horse, and Polyxena, now beginning to understand the danger, tried to claw her brother up after her. One brilliant blue eye cut to Achilles over a narrow shoulder that would never reach its true width, narrowing.

"Fuck off!" The knife from the boy's belt followed, more accurately thrown than the bucket, Troilus entirely correctly not trusting his bargain. Achilles was obliged to really duck this time, which let Troilus clamber up on the horse after his sister with startling speed. " _Ride_!"

No.

Achilles surged forward just as the horse did, precious seconds wasted as it danced around nervously before leaping into a gallop. Not fast enough. Achilles grabbed the back of Troilus' tunic, then when he was already falling, his hair, pulling him to the ground off the horse, dragging him away out of the reach of quickly disappearing hooves.

" _Troilus_!" Polyxena's cry was anguished, but she was not so stupid as to halt the horse; she let it run, back towards Thymbra. Perhaps she'd be spooked enough to try to go all the way back to Troy for safety, to call her brothers for reinforcement and hopeful rescue of Troilus. Either way, it wouldn't save her brother even if she did choose the closer destination. The boy was cursing and twisting like an angry cat, a young lion caught in a well-laid, unforgiving trap. He would probably have ripped his hair out if that would have let him escape Achilles' grip, but that much hair couldn't be so easily torn.

"Calm down, and your death will be a gentle one, accompanied by sweetness instead of fear," Achilles said, partially because it sounded good, partially because he was absolutely confident he could _make it that good_ , take the boy over to man for one sweet moment of knowledge before he snuffed his life out. For a moment, Troilus stilled, chest heaving and blue eyes wide and brightly wild. He stared up at Achilles from where he was splayed on the ground, thighs and calves tremblingly stiff and highlighting the sleek youthfulness of them, the colour high in his cheeks from fear as much as anger.

It was terribly fetching.

It was also a distraction, intended or not.

"Do I look stupid?" Troilus hissed, his Achaean accented and his voice choked by his breathlessness as much as the pain, right before he twisted, turning himself over in a quick flip and driving a foot right into Achilles' knee. Metal rang as Troilus' sandalled foot met greave, and Achilles, unprepared, staggered as pain lanced through him as if he'd been stabbed with a sword. The boy was strong, surprisingly so. Stronger than a mortal man, or boy would be at this age, even if kicks always carried cruel strength and force. He lost his grip on soft, dark-brown hair and fell to his knees, wincing when the knee Troilus had kicked hit the ground first. _Really_ strong. He would be a credit to his father and Troy both, an unstoppable terror on the battlefield, reaping glory and enemies both.

He would not be allowed to do that.

Sucking a breath in, Achilles surged to his feet, pain easing with the movement. Whirled around and spotted the boy fleeing like a startled hind from the pursuit of hunters and dogs towards the sanctuary of Apollo Thymbraios. Cursing, Achilles ran after. This was aggravating, but if he could just reach him before Troilus reached potential safety, maybe his mood wouldn't be entirely ruined. Achilles snorted, confident in the course of actions to happen as he absolutely should reach Troilus before that. He was the fleetest among the Achaeans, blessed with a winged gift that once had belonged to a Titan goddess.

Almost.

Not quite.

His hand closed on air, cloth and hair dashing just out of reach beyond his fingertips in the temple's doorway. Furious now, Achilles slammed a fist against the doorframe and stomped into the temple after the youth, his face in as high a colour as Troilus' had been earlier, though from rage only. Maybe it was fitting the boy die in here, at the feet of his father's statue. It was sacrilege, to be sure, but this was _war_ ; he'd sacked cities for years by now, left them burning behind him, temples and shrines and palaces and lowly hovels alike. What was this, then?

Achilles slowed to a stroll the deeper in he went. He could feel the prickle of power in the air, and for all the previous nonchalance, he did hesitate for a moment. Glanced up at the statue as he reached the cella, for the boy wasn't in the naos, but it wasn't coming from there. Behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted the spear, the shadow of terrible glare from above a flowing dress, belted at the waist.

Athena.

She would keep his deed hidden from the youth's father for long enough he could do what he was here for, one way or another.

Satisfied, Achilles turned around, scanning the small space.

"Come out from there, little prince. There's nowhere to go. You're a man, aren't you? _Defend yourself_."

A mocking repeat of Troilus' own instruction to his darling little sister, though it was as unfair of a goad as it'd been to a twelve year old princess when it came from a man nearly thirty, armed and armoured and aimed towards an unarmed boy dressed in nothing but his fringed tunic and sandals, divine parentage notwithstanding. Even the knife had already been spent, left outside. Still, it drew a softly outraged noise from somewhere behind the cult statue's pedestal, which was, of course, really the only place for Troilus to hide. Quite literally trying to take refuge behind his father.

Well, if all children could do so and remain absolutely sure of their safety, then war would be much kinder. Alas, Achilles had a goddess on his side as well as being descended from one; Apollo would see nothing until it was too late. He should drag the boy outside, he knew, but this had already taken longer than Achilles had planned for, and being rejected stung deeply. Less so for the boy’s youth and beauty as for the fact that they were both divinely descended. Thus, neither Achilles nor Troilus would leave this temple until this was over. It rather lent its own fire to his roused anger, this audacious act, the location. 

Laughing, Achilles paused instead of advancing further to rustle his rabbit out of its burrow. Tapping his sword against his greave until the cella rang with the song of bronze against bronze, he cocked a hip.

"Well? Are you to show the Trojans as rabbit-hearted fawns, or stand against me like the little lion cub you are? You've got fangs and claws still, don't you, and strength given by your father. You would have shattered my knee if I'd been full mortal as well. Don't disappoint your legacy, now!"

When Troilus did come out, Achilles almost embarrassed himself from the scant moment of surprise the boy was afforded. He was like lightning, quick and slender, though not so small, and rammed himself full against Achilles. He grappled for the sword with silent fury, tearing at Achilles' hands like he _was_ indeed using his nails as the claws Achilles had named them for. They both went down in a rattling impact that thundered through the temple as if Zeus himself had unleashed a bolt of lightning within the confines of this holy place.

A sharp little knee would possibly have unmanned him had he been not born of one of the Deathless Ones, and Achilles grunted, fist hitting the side of the youth's head, and Troilus flinched, slackening from shoulders to knee to hands, a moan nearly sweeter than what pleasure could surely pull out of that lovely throat escaping from him in his swoon. And yet he snapped his swaying head around in the same disoriented movement, again seemingly taking Achilles' suggestion he use what he have, and what he had was teeth.

Achilles let him. Tore his hand out of the grip of those teeth and down, closing it around the slim throat. Squeezing, Achilles crushed the growing apple of Troilus’ throat against his palm, squeezing until Troilus' fingers twitched helplessly, until thick, dark lashes fluttered as he started to lose the battle with consciousness. Then, Achilles flipped them over, turning the boy onto his front, an arm twisted up high behind his back.

" _Let go_!" Troilus' voice cracked high in fear and fury as he shouted, trying to struggle as soon as he had his wits about him again. That really only served to show off sleek his muscles, the long, coltish limbs, for he couldn't break free. Achilles tightened his grip on his captured arm and twisted. Troilus flinched and subsided, a high noise caught in the back of his throat. Would he sound the same with a cock between his thighs, in his ass?

"You didn't come quietly, but I'm still minded to give you a sweeter death than rude bronze only," Achilles said and squeezed the slender wrist in his grip until the bones ground together along with Troilus grinding his teeth.

"In here? _You can't_! My father---!"

"Won't be noticing anything, and I'm sure he would thank me for overseeing your transition into man. It's his domain, isn't it?" Achilles smiled, somewhere between genuinely amused and darkly malicious, tracing the tip of his sword down Troilus' body. Not deep enough to even cut the tunic, just yet.

"His--- you _know_?" Another crack of that youthful voice; it'd be pleasantly deep if it was allowed to settle. Troilus looked over his shoulder, wide-eyed and pale, his eyes bright enough they seemed to glow in the half-shadowed cella and taking up half his face.

"Anyone could see it," Achilles scoffed, then arched an eyebrow, "besides, you feel it, don't you? We're of a kind."

Blue, blue eyes flitted from his face, down, back up, away. "Just kill me. I don't want your lessons."

Rejected twice in short order, Achilles snarled and shifted - looked up at the ring of metal on stone, into Athena's pale, burning eyes. Underneath him, Troilus gasped, proving he could see her as well.

"Don't compound your crimes, Achilles," Athena said, voice flat and cool, lovely brows lowered over narrowed eyes, disapproval writ large in them, "dying is all Troilus needs to be doing."

The boy sobbed, understanding there would be no help here and tried to buck against him; Achilles planted a knee in his back and glowered until Athena disappeared, but didn’t quite leave. He could still feel her shielding the cella. She did not tell him to drag Troilus outside, away from the sacred precinct entirely; he should know to do that. He knew he should do that. But Achilles was angry; thwarted and still riding on the exhilarating prospect of killing young Troilus right at his father's feet. Wash them with blood instead of blessed, sweet water. He hauled Troilus up and around, driving the boy's breath out of him as he slammed him into the pedestal, pressing Troilus' gently curved chin against the smooth, perfectly-carved toes of Apollo's statue. He could see Troilus tip his head back, looking up at the towering statue. Heard something that might have been a whispered entreaty in Troilus' native language, though he spoke Achaean as one from the land itself, the accent notwithstanding.

Achilles raised his sword and pressed the cold bronze tip of it against the back of Troilus' neck. A pity, really. If he had not been ordered to kill him, he really would rather have dragged the boy back to camp. Though undoubtedly Agamemnon would have forced him to ransom Troilus instead. What a waste, in so many ways. And of course it was he who had to do this, too. Of course it couldn't be any of the other ones, blessed by their own divine parentage, or wily Odysseus, favoured by Athena as he was. No, it had to be Achilles - and as angry as that made him, Achilles wouldn't actually want it any other way. This, too, was his.

Under him, Troilus trembled. "W-wait---!"

Pressing his lips together and unwilling to listen to the beautiful Trojan prince change his mind and tease him with his compliance now that he'd been reminded of how bad of an idea it was to be in here at all, Achilles grunted and shoved the sword forward. 

The sobbing gasp from Troilus cut off into a gurgle. Blood poured over the statue's pristine feet, polished and painted, now washed in red. Troilus' slender, strong body jerked under, against Achilles, a reflexive shudder from the spasms of death that could have been heated passion if he'd had the chance, and then stilled. Yanking his sword free, Achilles let go and stepped away, staring at the slumped body as it slowly tipped over, dragging gore down the pedestal's side to pool on the floor under Troilus' corpse. So small, and yet he would already have been as tall as one of the tallest men around; Troilus would have been a shining tower of a man if he'd been allowed to reach twenty. Seemingly small, yes, but strong already. If he had been this troublesome to Achilles when alive, what could his angered ghost do?

Achilles stared as the soft brown hair turned wet and dark at the ends by the spilled blood. Young, but the son of a god. Angry ghosts weren't something to trifle with, and Achilles had a war to concern himself with.

It didn't take much further thought to hack off the graceful hands and feet, take one of the garlands left as offering for the god to string the extremities around the armpits, and turn to leave. He didn't run, but he didn't pause to wipe his sword off yet, for he wouldn't have much time for such things. Just as Achilles left the cella, the breath-stealing weight of divinity turned the air to lead.

He fled.


	2. Fury of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ganymede worries over the landing of the Achaean forces and Apollo grieves.

Ganymede had, as always, been trying not to pay attention, but Hebe had been called away to a council meeting and he should've known better. He did know better, but she'd been pulled away, and the councils only happened so often nowadays because of the war, and so he'd backtracked to the large silvered mirror lying on Hebe's table and _looked_. The gods didn't need such assistance but used it sometimes; Ganymede did need it, or needed a god to focus his attention and point to where, and what, he was supposed to be looking at. But with assistance, he could see anywhere he wished, even when he might not truly want to see it.

And so he saw the Achaean ships punch through the Dardanian and Trojan ships, saw them make land, the sunset bleeding onto the sand.

The Trojans tried, but for all of Hektor's furious prowess, for all the rest of anyone could do anything at all, this time the Achaeans weren't driven off, back to their ships, back out to sea. Ganymede, if not the mortal humans fighting on the beach, could see why. Poseidon and Athena were among the Achaeans, and they alone must have been given leave to support their side, so the Achaeans could finally make land. Either Zeus had given in to Hera’s demands, or he deemed it time; either way, there would be no driving them off easily, now. Hands clutching the rim of the mirror until his fingers trembled and cramped and his knuckles went white, Ganymede swallowed heavily as he watched.

There was no slaughter, but losses were accrued on both sides, of course. The Achaeans had made their stab to reach the shore too late in the day; falling night drove the Trojans back to their city and let the Achaeans mark out their future campsite, the ships to be drawn up and beached in the morning. Ganymede was still staring at the mirror in his lap, gone blank long since, when Hebe came back.

"Oh, Ganymede..." Coming over, she sat down next to him and pulled him close, so his face was in the crook of her neck. It didn't help. It was nice, but it didn't help, so he kissed her cheek and slid off the couch, wandering back towards his rooms. Halfway there he detoured to the kitchen, got piled with goods he didn't feel the least bit tempted to eat, and tried to find Zeus.

Not in the palace.

So he went up behind it, to the highest peak, and found him sitting there, hand in his chin and grim-faced.

"My lord---" His throat closed up, and he'd already been whispering almost, but Zeus had heard him and stirred, straightening up and holding a hand out. Ganymede came over and was pulled up onto the broad thighs, and found himself eating and drinking even if he'd not planned to. "They're there to stay, aren't they?"

Zeus pressed his lips together, eyes distant. He was holding the kantharos Ganymede had gone to the kitchen for while being given far more than just that in one hand and staring out into the dark sky, clouds covering the narrow new moon.

"It's not over yet."

Ganymede closed his eyes and nodded. But that, too, didn't help. It didn't feel like enough, and while the next morning brought nothing but the Achaeans drawing their ships up and making proper camp now that it was light, Ganymede walked the corridors with a growing sense of unease. Unease that tightened as he picked out the voices at the bottom of the megaron's stairs.

He hadn't meant to overhear. He hadn't been meant to hear it, Ganymede knew that, for it was obvious the two goddesses hadn't noticed him. Which was a relief, for then there was no reason to wonder if he had been meant to hear it.

In the end, of course, it still caused the unease to bloom out into cold, twisting thorniness in his gut, as well as an undeniable, crawling burn through his limbs. It replaced the immediate, threatening pressure at the back of his throat while he'd listened to the way Hera and Athena had talked about the Achaeans making camp. It could still be okay. It really could, Zeus had said it wasn't over yet; nine years gone, so many resources (lives) wasted. Who cared if they'd finally been able to take the beach close to Troy and settle in for a siege? The walls were taller and more solid than anything mortal hands could have wrought.

Because those walls hadn't been built by mortal hands. So it'd be fine, right? Unless the fact that Laomedon hadn't properly and willingly paid for the wall would matter. For a moment, Ganymede stopped in his pacing, slumped against one of the pillars in the megaron's portico, and kicked a heel back against the pillar's pedestal. If only Laomedon hadn't let his anger over Tithonos being kidnapped overtake his better judgement. If only Eos had kidnapped Tithonos a couple years later if she had to have done it at all. If _only_. Frustration bubbled up, pure and uncomplicated for a blessed moment. Then his thoughts cycled back to wondering if the walls would truly be able to withstand the siege thanks to Laomedon's barely understandable and certainly unfortunate treatment of Poseidon and Apollo. If they could, _if_ they could, then the Achaeans could dash themselves bloody against the thick, towering walls and the nine years would leave them nothing. Relatively, anyway. There were lots of cities up and down the Luwian and Thracian coastline and a little beyond, even, that had suffered terribly for this. So many lives lost... But if the walls could hold, at least Troy wouldn't join those.

If.

The word echoed in his head without dying away as Ganymede chewed on a knuckle, staring at the shining floor and the pattern of light and shadow the pillars cast. It took him several seconds to realize the rhythmic thumping wasn't his thoughts loudly going round and round in unceasing pattern like one of Hephaistos' mechanical inventions, but rather steps. Looking up and twisting around the pillar, Ganymede was just in time to see Apollo storm past him - the god must have gone into the megaron and now gotten out without Ganymede noticing. Or him noticing Ganymede either for that matter. But then, by his dark, hollow-eyed expression, cast down at the ground instead of raised high in front of him, Apollo didn't seem to be seeing much of anything at all.

He was undoubtedly looking for Zeus, and had thought to look in the megaron first, which was unfortunately empty. As Apollo went down the steps, Ganymede hesitated. If the god was looking for his father, then it wasn't something Ganymede should stick his nose in, probably. But...

"... Lord Apollo?" He spoke up, quietly, just as Apollo stepped off the last step, and it would have been easy for Apollo to ignore him. He'd been so soft-spoken precisely to give Apollo the opening to ignore him and go on his way if that was what he'd rather wish to do. Instead Apollo whirled around with such alacrity one of the loose tresses spilling down to frame his throat and shoulder smacked him in the chin, blue eyes dark with some unmentionable fury. It made him look older, ageless and terrible. Ganymede could only remember him having looked like this once before. "I'm sorry! I was just---!"

Snapping his mouth closed as Apollo practically flew up the stairs again, Ganymede was proud to say he didn't cringe back against the pillar (though it was a near thing). He didn't truly fear any harm at Apollo's hands, but the god almost seemed to see nothing as he came up the stairs and then stopped in front of him. His eyes were fire as he reached out with hands that trembled slightly, and cradled Ganymede's face in both hands. Then he just stood there. Staring, somewhere slightly above the top of Ganymede's head, his fingers catching in Ganymede's curls, his thumbs light as he stroked his cheeks. Apollo's hands were still trembling, and his mouth was twisted, lips pressed thin.

"... Lord Apollo? What happened?" Because clearly something had, and once again Ganymede was reminded of the only other time he had seen Apollo look like this. It'd been after Zeus had killed Asklepios.

"Sit with me."

A lot of the time, Apollo asked. That, though, had not been a request, but Ganymede nodded anyway, as if his agreement had been sought. Found himself sitting between Apollo's legs, strong, sleekly-muscled arms wrapped around his waist and Apollo's face buried in his hair. Apollo rocked slightly, his voice almost unintelligible for how quiet he was being and for how deep he'd buried his face.

He was singing.

Nothing like he usually would sing, and it took Ganymede long, precious seconds to actually figure out what it was, for it was a tangled mess that went between Achaean and Luwian, back and forth and around. It would have been a marvel if not for the emotion in the words, for the meaning was flawlessly preserved as Apollo slid from one language to the other. Ganymede rather wished he didn't understand.

It was deep-dirged and aching, every single syllable half-choked with as much fury as anguish, and Ganymede didn't need to be told to understand what had happened. Someone had died. Someone precious to Apollo had died, and as far as Ganymede knew, there was right now only a limited amount of people it could be and he feared, then, as selfish and despairing as he was compassionate of Apollo's loss regardless, for the smaller number of which he really would rather not it be considering the war. But the languages Apollo had chosen to sing in... The tangle in his gut grew up, out. Twined around his heart, and Ganymede had to swallow heavily before he tried to speak, but he was worried he'd end up embarrassing himself anyway.

Maybe it didn't matter, considering the song, pressing into his body, pulling at his insides, at the already unsettled worries. It was very hard not to cry, with the way Apollo was clutching at him with trembling hands, but then, really, the tears should be Apollo's, not his. What right did he have to cry about it?

(What right didn't he?)

"A-apollo---"

"Hush. Shh. Quiet." A kiss was pressed to the back of his head like _he'd_ been the one singing, like his voice had been as sludgy and near to breaking as Apollo's was. Yes, it was close, but the lack of precise knowledge was as of yet protecting Ganymede from the full impact of the loss. "Just sit, Iliades."

He almost cracked, then. Almost. By the chosen epithet, evidence added on top of the languages used, it was obvious what this was about. What the Achaeans' nascent siege must already have wrought. Had Hera and Athena not known yet? Had they not cared about that? Maybe it hadn't happened until after their conversation. Ganymede hoped for the first or the last, despite everything. Maybe it was more than what was deserved, but he still hoped it.

"Who---"

"What's going on here?"

Jumping at Zeus' voice as his shadow fell over them, Ganymede might have stammered through a mess of absolutely nothing because he didn't know what he was supposed to feel at the moment, or how to react to being found like this. He glanced up, wide-eyed and full of his own emotions as much as Apollo's, soaked through in his singing as they were. Zeus didn't look angry, just bewildered. Then, as he met Ganymede's gaze, it started to slide over into concerned.

"Father," Apollo said, and then his voice cracked, right at the end. Depthless anger and distress wove together into a single, terrible emotion, and Zeus sat down. Reached out, not for Ganymede but Apollo, a large hand sliding around to cradle the side of Apollo's head, tangling in hair that was starting to fray. Apollo's hair never frayed. "Achilles--- Achilles killed Troilus."

Ganymede sucked in a breath that got stuck there, lodged in his throat like an arrow.

Child.

How old had he been? Eleven, fourteen, maybe. Somewhere between there; Ganymede remembered Apollo had been so sweetly, brightly proud and pleased at a child’s birth a couple years ago. It was just that the near-constant worries of the war for the last nine years and how little time had mattered before then that blurred the memory of the exact time. It didn’t matter, really. What mattered was that Troilus' life had been snuffed, and it couldn’t have been on the battlefield. Troilus might be skilled enough with horses that if one was in pressing need one could have put the boy on a chariot and he could single-handedly probably have assured as many victories for Troy as would have pleased, but he wouldn't have been sent out on the battlefield if it wasn't of pressing need. And wasn't this the second son of Apollo Achilles had killed? There'd been Tenes, too. Tenes, at least, had been older.

" _In my sanctuary_ ," Apollo said, hissing like acid eating through silver now, and Ganymede would have bruises but he said nothing. "He was all the way inside, behind my statue. Achilles pulled him out from behind it and _killed him in there_."

That Apollo was here and not down at Troy tearing through the nascent Greek camp on the shore to reach Achilles was a surprise. The murder within the sacred precinct gave Apollo the unquestionable and unalienable right to come down like night, like summer sun and starving lioness on the offender who would kill a suppliant at a god's (at his father's) altar. But the war. It was a snarled, sensitive thing, so many bits and pieces, so many wants and desires, and so Apollo was here, mourning and raging instead of unleashing instant, burning fury.

Closing his eyes, Ganymede managed to swallow the obstruction stuck in his throat, though it convulsed with it. His eyes burned, but he blinked it away. Twisted around in Apollo's grip against his wounded protest, but only to get up on his knees and wind his arms around the god's shoulders. Burying Apollo's face against his chest, Ganymede looked to Zeus. Gray met Ganymede's green for a moment before Zeus closed his eyes, mouth twisting into a flat line. Apollo twisted his hands into the back of Ganymede's tunic and straight up _howled_.

Briefly, the sun darkened, a flicker of night in the middle of day. The clouds appeared as if conjured, and then the sky opened up. They were just barely protected by the portico's roof from the deluge hammering down outside.

"Thanatos!" Zeus' voice rolled through the air, shaded with thunder, but Apollo didn't so much as twitch as the startled god appeared beside them, already looking wary. He didn't get a chance to speak.

"Fetch the body of Troilus and make sure it's in pristine condition before you hand it to Priam and Hecuba for burial."

It wasn't a fix; there was no way to repair this. Done was done, and rarely were gifts such as Hyacinthus given once, never mind twice. Worse was the implication of Zeus' words, that he expected the corpse to probably be mutilated. A _boy_. Did Achilles have no shame? Would he truly fear the ghost of a boy just barely old enough to carry actual arms, if even that? Thanatos relaxed even as he frowned, mouth settling along with his wings.

"It'll be done, Father Zeus." Thanatos bowed his head, fathomless eyes falling onto Apollo's bowed head. "I'm sorry, Phoebus."

He was gone in the next moment, leaving the three of them there on the highest step to the megaron, rain falling like thunder. Apollo was silent now, and for as much as Ganymede had had to defend himself against the swell of misery Apollo's song had been instilling, it seemed somehow worse that he should be silent. That there would be no singing for the child until Troy could get their next to youngest prince back for burial.

So Ganymede closed his eyes, relaxing a little into the warmth of Zeus' other hand as it landed on his hip, fought with his memory for what he needed, a Luwian funerary song, and sang instead. He knew it not because he’d had reason to sing it while growing up; Callirrhoe had lost no pregnancies or children born, and any family they had both in Troy and Dardanos hadn’t died until after Ganymede had been taken. He knew it because he’d been taught it, and he was terribly glad not to have had any need of it until now since his parents and, later, siblings died.

His voice was strong and clear, unbroken by the weight of knowledge and emotion lurking in his heart, the back of his head, and Ganymede was proud that he could do that much, at least.

It ended as all songs must, and though it couldn't drain the sorrow, perhaps it'd done some small amount of good. Ganymede hoped so. He felt hollow and tired, but that was familiar by now. Over nine long years of watching the Luwian lands and the Troad get ravaged as the Achaeans tore up and down the coast, repeatedly repelled from any shore closer to Troy, and now... Ganymede shivered and clutched Apollo's strong, graceful shoulders more tightly. Hadn't there been something, about Troilus' survival and Troy..?

The thought dovetailed onto the awareness of another god nearby. Goddess, rather. Ganymede pressed his lips together, drawing breath with the realization of who it was just as Apollo surged to his feet, depositing Ganymede on the steps and behind him with surprising gentleness despite the energy wound so tight in his limbs.

"Athena---"

"He was mortal, Apollo. He would have died sooner or later anyway."

Ganymede flinched at her dispassionate tone, grimacing as he glanced up at Zeus. He glanced down, heavy brows lowered and sighed soundlessly as he met Ganymede's gaze. No, that hadn't been tactful at all, and Apollo was practically vibrating now.

" _In my temple_ , Athena!" Apollo roared, incandescent with rage like a summer-dry forest starved of rain, where the barest of candle spark could light a conflagration that would eat the wood in moments. Heat and light threatened to burn Ganymede's tanned skin, and while he would not burn into nothing at being exposed to such unbridled divinity, it would still hurt. It already did hurt, honestly, and Zeus pulled him away from Apollo, behind himself instead, though didn't tell him to retreat to the megaron. Perhaps because, even as Apollo glared bright blue fire at Athena, one hand reached out behind him, blindly searching as if he could tell Ganymede was no longer where he'd put him. Obligingly, Ganymede reached out, gently caught Apollo's wrist for a moment against the heat threatening his skin, then let go. It seemed to satisfy the god, and he subsided. "Inside the sacred precinct! He would have defiled it further, too, and you kept me from noticing!"

There were blackened spots on the stone around Apollo by now, the light around him darkening the stone, the air, the sun itself; threatening to make Olympos tremble. Ganymede's breath came shorter, and was definitely a little harder to take than it should be. He felt no shame in stepping in a little further behind Zeus, who, while he normally always was a hot forge of power, now seemed cool in comparison.

"I made sure he didn't. I'm sorry, Apollo," Athena said, and while she was sincerely apologetic, Ganymede could hear if not see, she wasn't regretting it. "But if you'd kept your dick out of Priam's wife, Hecuba wouldn't have borne a son of such divine provenance that Troy could be guaranteed to stand if he was put on the battlefield, even as young as he is. A lion cub is still a lion, and fierce among helpless lambs."

"Hektor---"

"Is Priam and Hecuba's son, and while his existence is the sum total of divine ancestry and legacy several times over from Father Zeus himself as well as Xanthos and Simoeis and he is godlike and might be able to stand against Achilles if he's careful, he is not the son of Phoebus Apollo," Athena said, cool and sharp. Ganymede wished he dared to look around Zeus to get a better look at her, at Apollo, but he wasn't that recklessly stupid, and by the grip Zeus had on him, he'd just pull him back if he tried to move. "Troy may still survive if Hektor lives to defend it, we all know the outcome hasn't been decided yet. But with Troilus alive, there would have been no contest, and I will not have the insult dealt to me be a foregone conclusion because of that! Not when you helped Poseidon build the walls around blessed Ilium yourself. That is why Troilus' fate, through his divine father, would have kept Troy standing."

Athena hadn't moved any closer, preferring to stand out in pouring rain, though the deluge was slowing and fading by now. She was probably drenched through from it even so. And whether her distance was calculated respect for the bright fury Apollo emanated, evaporating the rain and leaving him dry, his hair half-floating about him and his forehead and the crown of his head bright, or merely not feeling any need to attempt to stir more anger, or even some angle Ganymede couldn't guess at, was impossible to say.

"And you would have armed the youth yourself, divinely blessed weapons for a godlike son."

"It would have been my right," Apollo snarled, tight and displeased. "And none of that takes away from the fact that Achilles murdered an unarmed youth, my son, _in my temple_ , Athena! A second child of mine for this war! You keeping him from violating both my son and my temple further still didn't have Achilles pull the child out of the sacred precinct at the very least!" Bellowing again, Apollo would have surged forward and possibly tried to throttle Athena bodily if not for the sudden grip Zeus had on his shoulder, pulling Apollo back.

"Father---!"

"Achilles will be yours, Apollo." Zeus was frowning, it could be heard as well as felt, and Ganymede shivered a little at the cool weight in the voice, in the air. Was absurdly grateful for the thumb gently stroking his skin in contrast, even if Zeus' attention was on his children. "Achilles has chosen his fate by participating in the war, and you may be the end of him, I give it to you now as you see fit, but you can't have his death yet. It's not the time, and you know it."

Apollo slumped. A shuddering tremble went through him as the brightness of his fury collapsed like the death of a star, terrible and beautiful. "She would not be so very cavalier about it if it had been _her_ temple that had been defiled in such a manner."

Athena, Ganymede saw as he dared a glance around Zeus' broad frame now that Apollo wasn't literally burning the air around him, flinched, opening her mouth - and then stopped, pressing her lips together, gray eyes wide and incredulous for a moment as she looked to her father as Zeus held her gaze, shaking his head. As reprimands went it was nothing, but Athena wasn't used to anything but indulgence from Zeus, even now. With a huff, she turned around sharply.

"I _am_ sorry for your loss, Apollo." And well she might be, but she was still not regretful. She left with her back straight and head held high; she'd really not lost anything in this, and had secured one of the steps that would lead to Troy's eventual, hopefully still only potential, fall. Ganymede swallowed down bile.

"Take Ganymede for the day," Zeus said, and Ganymede startled but didn't do more than follow the gentle push as he was propelled forward into Apollo's side. What he could do more than what he'd already done, Ganymede didn't know. It wasn't as if his connection to Troilus was anything but tenuous... But he was of the royal line of Troy and Dardanos, and further the one such within easy reach since Apollo could not so simply go to Hecuba to share her grief. He was as close to Troilus as anyone could get that wasn’t Troilus’ immediate family, and perhaps that mattered more than the truth of generations between him and the young prince of Troy murdered in his father's temple.

Apollo sucked in a shuddering breath and nodded, eyes closed. Finally opened them to look down to Ganymede, eyes dark and endless. "You'll come?"

It was strange to have him _ask_. Reaching out, Ganymede dropped his hand to the back of Apollo's, slid it over skin still hotter to the touch than usual and wrapped his hand around the slim, large one of the god. "Of course."

Maybe it would be a distraction. Maybe that was wrong, but Ganymede would rather focus on Apollo than the deeper meanings behind the grief, right now. Didn't want to think any more about the reason for it, where it might lead. Did not want to confront the possibility of his home being razed any more than he had to.

**Author's Note:**

> The mutilation Achilles subjects Troilus' corpse to is called maschalismos!


End file.
